


Herald Lost and Haven Buried

by hear_her_speak



Series: May You Learn [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hear_her_speak/pseuds/hear_her_speak
Summary: After Corypheus and his Red Templars attack Haven, the fledgling Inquisition hides in the mountains, their former base buried beneath the snow.  With it lies the Herald of Andraste, Branwen Lavellan, who gave her life to insure her people could escape.The whole Inquisition mourns, but none more than Solas, who was just beginning to understand the depth of his feelings for the Herald.  Unsure what to do now, Solas contemplates what Branwen's death means for the world, for his people, and, most of all, for his heart.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Series: May You Learn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597180
Kudos: 11





	1. All Is Lost

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of an ongoing series about the adventures of Branwen Lavellan and her time as Inquisitor. These stories are not in chronological order, currently, though I may revise as I near completion. 
> 
> While each individual story has a different rating, this is a Solavellan centric, slow burn. Expect mature and explicit content by the end.
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to give this a read and to learn about an OC that has become so near and dear to my heart!

Silence had long since settled over Haven. Those that took the mountain pass had walked away from what once had been home. Now, it was just a sheet of white. There was nothing left.  
Those who had remained were gone, and there had been a lot of them. Most of them had been elderly or infirm, and could not make the journey.  
Solas sat on a crate filled with provisions at the edge of the camp, staring off into the darkness. No one spoke, and the only sound was the wailing of those mourning their loved ones. And it was his fault.  
Solas steadied his breathing. He took a deep breath and heard the words Mythal had told him in his youth: “Harden your heart to a cutting stone.” Another deep breath.  
But breathing was difficult. He could not shake the vision from his mind, the sight of Branwen running, of the darkspawn that pursued her, of her falling, disappearing beneath mounds of snow.  
She was dead. He was sure of it. And he had cared for her, had considered her a true friend, but-  
Harden your heart to a cutting stone.  
-but she would have died anyways. The mark would have seen to that. It was always just a matter of time. He had to remember that.  
Harden your heart. Harden your heart. Harden your heart!  
But he could not. He let the tears come. He refused to weep, but he allowed the steady trails that streamed silently down his still face. There was no one to see, and she had been a remarkable woman. No one would fault him, if they saw. They would not question his grief. How could they know the truth - that her fate was on his head? No, they would simply thing he cried for his fallen friend. His rib cage felt restricted.  
“Are you alright?” said a delicate voice from behind him. He said nothing at first for fear that his emotions would be seen. They were private, his alone. To be seen was one thing, but he did not wish to share them.  
“I’m fine,” he managed, after a time, and his voice remained even.  
“I’m not,” she said. “May I sit?”  
He nodded and tried to wipe his eyes as inconspicuously as possible.  
Josephine sat down beside him. The crate was big enough for two, but the ruffles of her sleeve brushed against his arm. Solas peered at her face. Her makeup was running ever so slightly, and she held a white handkerchief that was smudged black with makeup where she had created a point with the fold.  
“We’ve spoken so rarely, Master Solas,” she said with a smile. “I wonder why that is?”  
“You’ve more important things to attend to, Lady Montilyet.”  
“That’s not true!” She lightly slapped his arm. “And please, call me Josephine.”  
“Josephine,” he said, “without you, Orlais, Ferelden, and the Chantry would have put an end to the Inquisition long ago. Your people would have been forced to wander with no place to call their own.”  
“You are too kind.”  
“I am not,” he said. “I am simply observant. And Bran-” Her name stuck in his throat. Harden your heart... “Branwen said so herself a number of times.”  
Josephine’s gaze drifted to the snowy earth beneath them, and her eyes filled with sorrow. “I was just getting to know her. She seemed so good, so genuinely kind.”  
“She was,” he agreed.  
“The two of you were close, were you not?”  
Tears were threatening to well up again. He took a long, deep breath. “Yes, I suppose we were.”  
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. They sat together in relative silence. She cried quietly and dabbed the corners of her eyes. He stared at the cold, white snow that stretched out before them, his mind reeling. Without Branwen, all hope was lost, and it was his fault. It was too much to bear.  
“Forgive me, Josephine,” he said, standing, “I- I think I need to rest.”  
“Of course,” she said. “If there’s anything you need-”  
He nodded, then left her without looking back. He found an empty tent and claimed it for his own. The troops had managed to save some of the supplies, and he was able to procure a bedroll without too much trouble. He unrolled it inside the tent and laid down, pulling the blanket high over his shoulder. The damned tears came again, then, as he knew they would. He let himself weep this time - for his people, long dead, and for this world. If death must come to them, it should not be through methods as cruel as Corypheus's. He would enjoy watching the world burn, and Solas hated him all the more for it. Mostly, though, he cried for the girl with the accidental mark, the girl who was merely at the wrong place at the wrong time, who had only ever treated him with kindness, but now paid for his sins buried beneath the cold and the snow. He cried until sleep found him, and he drifted off to find solace in the Fade.

He awoke with a start to the sound of shouts. His first thought was that Corypheus had found them. He jumped out of the tent, grabbed his staff from where he had propped it outside, and sprinted to the source of the commotion. He was already charging his mana.  
He pushed through a crowd of onlookers, unsure what he would find on the other side. When the last body parted way for him, he saw. Cullen was sprinting down the hill, screaming for help. Cassandra hot behind him. Branwen was in his arms.  
She was alive!  
He sprinted to meet them, dropping his staff in the snow on the way. It was a hindrance he could not afford. When he reached them, he turned back around and jogged beside Cullen as he continued down the hill.  
“Let me see her!” he cried. But Cullen paid him no heed. Cassandra grabbed Solas by the shoulder and stayed him as Cullen continued on.  
“She’ll live,” she said, “but she’s exhausted and cold. She needs the surgeon now.”  
Solas made to push forward, but Cassandra stepped in front of him. “You must let the surgeon see her, Solas. I know you care for her, but you must set your emotions aside.”  
He realized, then, that he had barely even noticed Cassandra. She had been there, somewhere in the corners of his consciousness, but his world had been a blur, his vision tunneled on Branwen’s limp form. He snapped out of the fog and sighed. The Seeker, of course, was right.  
But Branwen was alive! There was hope for the world! He could still fix this mess!  
She was alive! His people could be restored. He could right his wrongs, fix his mistakes, start over, try again, and make the world better.  
Yet, all of those things were pushed to the far corners of his mind. She was alive, and he was glad of it for its own sake.  
“You’re right,” he said, “but… she’s alright?”  
“Yes,” said Cassandra, no longer holding him in place. “It seems so. We will know more once the surgeon has examined her.”  
Solas was satisfied, at least as satisfied as he could be. He walked slowly now, side by side with the Seeker. Cullen had found an empty cot on which he laid Branwen. Her breathing was steady, and she looked peaceful. Cullen covered her with a blanket, then smoothed her hair, brushing the loose strand from her face. He took on the role of a protector and a nurturer, a job Solas’s hands itched to perform. It was not his place, though, and it would be unwise to give into those desires.  
The surgeon came, then, and began her assessment. Josephine and Leliana were not far behind. Solas, Cullen, and Cassandra stood back, letting her work. The five of them waited with bated breaths, hoping for the best but ever fearing the worst.  
The surgeon hardly took any time at all. She looked up at the lot of them, tears in her eyes. “She’s unharmed!” she wept. “Andraste be blessed! It’s a miracle.”  
A miracle? Solas hadn’t ever believed in miracles. There were no such thing. And yet, here she was.  
Perhaps there were miracles after all.


	2. All Is Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas, having nearly lost Branwen, contemplates

Solas had retreated to the seclusion of the wilds at the edge of the camp. He was of no use to anyone remaining by Branwen’s side. On the contrary, he was just in the way. The helplessness he felt waiting for her to wake up was immense, so he had left her side to calm his head. He had tried to explore the Fade, but sleep evaded him. Instead, he walked the outskirts of the camp, allowing the frigid air to cleanse his lungs and clear his head.  
It was on his third turn about the camp that he heard the gentlest hint of a melody. It started softly at first, but soon it swelled, a tune that spoke of hope and victory. He approached the heart of camp, curious what had caused the chorus to begin. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, for who else could have sparked such hope and such devotion? But there she was, standing in the heart of the singing throng. The song was a Chantry song, one Solas had never heard, but it’s message was clear: the dawn would come, and with it, hope.  
Branwen appeared dazed. She was not shy, but she had never enjoyed the devotion that being Herald brought with it. Since her return - words that eased Solas’s spirit - she had been even more revered. It was believed that the Maker had restored her and brought her back to her followers, and no amount of protestation would convince them otherwise.  
Solas, though, felt amused. She was alive, well, and loved, all things right and good. It was as she deserved. He was proud of her, and he looked on with a satisfied grin. She was exactly the kind of person the world needed. He should have feared her. Her strength and goodness would surely be his undoing. A small part of him wondered if she might just succeed. Doubtful, of course, but if anyone could, it was her. All the more reason to keep his distance. Reason was the farthest thing from his mind, though.  
The song rose to a crescendo, and an idea struck Solas. He owed her everything, and his faults were in her hands to correct. He would give her a gift - the most generous he could give. It was the least he could do.  
The song ended, and Solas saw his chance. He approached her quickly, hoping to steal her away before her followers began to vie for her attentions. “A word?” He didn't bother to look behind him. He knew she would come.  
Solas lead her away from the camp, into an opening in the trees. There was a torch, there, stuck in the ground. He lit it with Veilfire and used it to warm his hands. He could hear the crunch of snow as she approached. He felt warm having her so near. She approached the fire, her arms folded against the chill. He smiled at her. “The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting. Their faith his hard won, Lethallan, worthy of pride…”  
She smiled back at him, and he could see she was proud of herself. He was proud of her, too. But he needed to be honest with her, at least, as honest as he could be. So, he continued, blunt and harsh, and jumped right in. “-save one detail. The threat Corypheus wields - the orb he carried - it is ours.”  
He watched as thoughts and feelings flicked across her face. He was still learning how to read her, but her eyes grew large, and she seemed to hold herself a bit tighter.  
He continued. “Corypheus used the orb to open the breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the conclave. We must find out how he survived… and we must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb is of our people.”  
She looked away, her eyes looking at nothing in particular as her brain processed what she had just heard. “Alright,” she said at last, “What is it and how do you know about it?”  
Because it is mine, he thought, but said, “Such things were Foci, said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains are references in ruins and faint visions of memory in the Fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb is Elvhen, and with it he threatens the heart of human faith.”  
Branwen looked upset, hopeless. “Even if we defeat Corypheus, eventually they’ll find a way to blame elves.”  
“I suspect you are correct. It is unfortunate, but we must be above suspicion if we are to be seen as valued allies.”  
“I resent them for it, sometimes. I hate that I resent them.”  
“Do you not think your resentment is earned?”  
“It is,” she said, “but it doesn’t mean I want them to have that power over me. The Elves have been too long oppressed, and I am tired of being powerless to stop it.”  
“You aren’t powerless anymore, Lethallan. You hold the fate of your people in the palm of your hand.”  
“Since when do you think the Elves are worth saving?”  
“Since there is someone who might actually be able to save them,” he said.  
She shuffled her feet in the snow. “They have so much faith in me… ”  
“Such faith is powerful.”  
“Such faith is terrifying. I never asked for it. I’m not the Herald of Andraste.”  
“No,” he said, “but you are the best hope these people have. Faith in you is shaping this moment, but it needs room to grow. By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it. Changed you.” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and his stomach churned when he did. She looked to his hand, then to his face. There were questions, there, and there was fear, but she smiled at him. Her eyes were beautiful, soft hazel, almost green. He could not be her lover, he knew that, but he could be something else. It was his fault that she was in this position, but he would not let her suffer alone. He could be a mentor to her, a pathfinder in the dark uncertainty that he knew she would face. He would guide her through hell and make sure she would come out unscathed, if he could. He owed her that. And in that moment, he knew exactly where he must lead her. “Scout to the North. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build, grow.”  
“What place?”  
“A castle fortress in the mountains. It is ancient, and it will provide a home for your flock.”  
“Shouldn't you lead us there? You seem to know the place.”  
“Because I am not their leader. As I have said, faith is shaping this moment - faith in you. They need you to be something more.”  
“So, what, I tell them Andraste has shown me the way? That’s a lie!”  
“You won’t have to tell them anything beyond the truth. Tell them you know where they can find safety and lead them there. They will fill in the rest.”  
“I’m scared.”  
“I know, my friend. But I do not believe their faith is without merit. I do not believe in Andraste, but I believe in you with all my heart.” He smiled back at her. “In the morning, tell the people that you will lead them. I will guide you the whole way.”  
She looked into his face, worry etched in the lines on her forehead. She crumpled against his chest with a thud and wrapped her arms tightly about his waist. It took him utterly and completely by surprise. He was much taller than her, so her head was buried at the base of his sternum. She lingered. He should have put an end to it.  
But he didn’t. He dropped his staff in the snow and pushed her away only long enough to shift his grasp. He slid his arms beneath hers this time, and she shifted so that hers were about his neck. He squeezed her lower back and straightened, lifting her to her tiptoes as he went. He closed his eyes and savored her touch, loving the feeling of her body pressed to his. He felt that warmth once more, the one that always seemed to spread through his heart when she was near.  
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” she whispered into his ear.  
“And I you, my friend. And I you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this dialogue is lifted from the original game. I've tweaked it to make it work with my version of the story. All credit to the respective writers/creators.


End file.
